Manipulated
by boredsvunut
Summary: An odd little piece, from the POV of a perp. Implied JO, somewhat. One shot. Complete.


(Disclaimer: Not mine. I promise, I'm not claiming them.)

(Note: This is very, very weird... but I think I like it.)

You watch as they enter the room, filing in one behind the other. Male cop. Female cop. She slams the door behind her - a half-assed attempt at intimidating you, you suppose - and lounges against the wall with the mirror, the picture of boredom.

The older of the two of them, the man, walks circles around the cold, grey room - doesn't the police department ever redecorate? - once, twice. He stops directly behind you - more intimidation - and then moves to the chair across from you, settling himself in it. He doesn't look like he's going to attempt to make himself your friend. Surprise, surprise.

You spare a moment to wonder if he always dresses like that or if the lack of colour is a part of his interrogation.

She speaks unexpectedly, drawing your attention away abruptly. She's a drastic improvement over most women who call themselves cops - she could have easily lent herself to another line of work - but brunettes were never your thing to begin with. If only she was blonde, like the naive little thing who'd just gotten off a bus from some little Midwestern town. Then you'd be interested. It would be stupid, of course but you would be.

It might even be worthwhile to feign an interest in her, now. Might get you the upper hand. Maybe. You sit forward, giving her a once over and she glares at you, disgusted. She's a cop. Of course. Or she could quite possibly be taken. "Good morning, Detective," you greet her. Polite. Your best polished charmer's smile.

No shock or surprise passes through her eyes that you can see. She keeps her expression steady - passive and bored. This one is no foolish rookie. You won't be able to play simple head games with her. She just stares at you or through you, perhaps. It's unlikely you'll be playing games with her partner, either. He looks entirely too smart for that, unlike the big dumb brute cops who focused more on intimidation than actual thinking you've been stuck in the box with, in the past.

That's what they call it. The box. You can definitely see the comparison. However, after being stuck in so many of these things, so many different times, you've become rather indifferent to them. Grey is grey. The chair is steel and cheap. They mess with the thermostat to mess with you. They handcuff you to the table, read your rights and start with the long, ranting monologues. Waiting for you to talk back or call for a lawyer.

She's speaking again - something about how they and the state want to "fry" you. Rather an old threat that's been used over and over again, without much success. She starts with the pictures. Apparently, morgue photos are supposed to get some sort of emotional response.

The old man sitting in the chair across from you looks to her... You wonder, briefly judging by the look, if there might be a little inter-office romance going on - and tucks the pictures back in the plain file folder and then produces two sheets of paper. He says something about a clear photograph of your license plate in a certain area on a certain night. Then he hands you the other one.

Gibberish. Technical science gibberish on a lab report. Another piece of paper is pushed in front of you. Yet another lab report that makes no sense to you. You look up at him and work the smile back into position on your face. "Detective, I'm afraid I'm confused. I'm not sure what you're asking me to look at."

"You're holding your tickets to a nice trip upstate," he informs you, sounding bored. "Might be something you want to pay attention to."

She's got that satisfied little smirk on her face, watching you. She knows you're screwed now and she's relishing in it. Deservedly so. You made mistakes. Got sloppy. "You aren't as smart as you think you are, are you, Bennett?"

You'll treat that as if it was rhetorical and not answer her. She'll find a way to twist it against you and you'll end up spilling more information than she has. More than you want to give. "Get me a lawyer," you say, wisely.


End file.
